


According to Plan

by noobcake



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Community: dragonage_kink, F/M, Post-Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2860403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noobcake/pseuds/noobcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could say that Elissa Cousland and Nathaniel Howe have some issues to work out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The darkspawn nightmares still wash over me, and after the death of the Archdemon, they come coupled with the image of Alistair telling me this is the sanest thing he's ever done, pushing me aside as he rushes the Archdemon, his body writhing and falling limp.

So it happened that rage kept my feet pounding down the roads toward Amaranthine, my sword singing as I cut through all darkspawn and bandits in my way. That was how I grieved—with violence. Mhairi could barely keep up.

And so it happens now that this night in Vigil's Keep, and I am exhausted but awake. In truth, I haven't slept more than two hours at a time since that battle atop Fort Drakon.

Tonight, however, I am even more awake; there is an intruder stealthily trying to open my window. Here, I must stifle a chuckle. Zevran and Leliana taught me well, while we were on the road together. I have lost count of the number of attempts on my life since the first at my family home in Highever—they are almost routine, now—and my two dear friends kindly shared some of their trade secrets in order to help me survive. I have come to relish foiling these assassination attempts. I feign sleep and will myself not to grin in anticipation. Tonight, my attacker will be the man I released from the Keep's dungeon earlier this evening: Nathaniel Howe.

He's not unskilled. He might even have escaped the detection of a light sleeper, had the window's hinge not been a touch rusty. He stands for a full minute in the shadows, watching me breathe, listening for any sign that he was seen by the Keep's night watch. This is not the hallmark of a professional assassin. It is the mark of either a sadist drinking in the image of his slumbering victim, or of one who is undecided about his course of action. Intriguing.

Finally, he pads toward me, and I think perhaps he will make his move, but he halts again. I strangle an absurd impulse to leap out of bed and yell "SURPRISE!" It would probably frighten him to death. Then at least I could go back to bed. But no, I do not wish to alert my guards. I cannot have them thinking I am a terrified girl, unable to handle a single intruder. I am always the Warden-Commander now.

Another minute of gazing down at me from my bedside while I fake the slow, easy breathing of deep sleep. Maker, if he keeps this up, I may truly fall asleep.

Ah. Here it comes in the form of a hand on my wrist, and another hand on my mouth to prevent any shouting. Does he think I'll scream girlishly, or has he heard that my battle cry is loud enough to stun enemies? (It is.) Regardless, before he can get much of a purchase, I've turned his hold on me against him and flipped him neatly onto the bed, straddling him and stuffing a wad of bedsheet into his mouth. His grey eyes go wide in surprise, then narrow with loathing.

"I know you told me that if I let you go, you would probably be back, but I did not expect it to be so soon. Do not struggle, Nathaniel, and I may let you go again," I say with an easy smile.

He _does_ struggle, and he _is_ quite strong, but from his disadvantageous position he cannot budge me without committing all his strength and going for the kill. He rolls his eyes to the side. He's been bested in two seconds by a Hero of Ferelden, who at the moment happens to be a young woman in a nightdress, albeit a rather muscular one. An affront to his already-wounded pride. How will he react? I will test him.

"Don't be discouraged," I continue. "This does not reflect upon your skill. You see, I was already awake before you appeared at my window. You may wish to carry a small vial of oil for rusty hinges, however." I can't help it, getting that little dig in. "Now, since _you_ appeared uninvited in _my_ room, can I assume that you won't squeal for the guards if I allow you to speak?"

He nods, at once ashamed and annoyed. The annoyance piques my interest. Means he has some fight left, and also some measure of self-control.

I remove the bunched sheet from his mouth and flop myself upon the bed on my stomach, my face at level with his, and my feet kicked up into the air as if we two are girls gossiping at a slumber party. I do this to goad him, to drive home the fact that he is no threat to me. Zevran and Leliana again, with a side of Alistair: confuse the living hell out of your would-be attacker, and do it with good humor. Make them wonder whether they want to kill you, bed you, or pound you on the back and head to the tavern with you to get drunk and sing bawdy songs.

He picks a bit of fluff from the sheet off his tongue. "This is _my_ bedroom, and _you_ are the uninvited one," he comments sourly. And now it is my turn to look surprised, but I forge ahead in my Reasonable, Friendly Person voice.

"Really? I did know this section of the Keep was the Howe family's private quarters, but...Ah," I say. "This is rather awkward."

Through clenched teeth, he says, "Quite."

"I doubt our fathers, Maker rest their souls, would approve of our getting acquainted like...this." I indicate our location, here in bed, seeing just how far I can push him. "Although come to think of it, when your father visited my home in Highever, he did say to me that he wished me to meet his son."

"Did he." Dryly phrased as a statement, not a question.

"Indeed. In fact, I said I would be delighted, which seemed to surprise him! And I _am_ , but I _do_ so wish we could have met under better circumstances." I give him my fake-winsome smile, the one I gave to the crowds after the Archdemon was slain. To those who didn't know me, it seemed the bright smile of a champion. To those who did, it looked maniacal, unhinged.

His eyes darken with contempt and he sits up. "You have taken everything from my family. Our home, our lands, our father, our good name. Must you mock me as well, here in this room where I slept as a child? I came here to avenge my father, but if I cannot do that, I would like to collect the rest of my keepsakes from this room and be gone."

A lesson in intrigue from Leliana: If your opponent shows a vulnerability, it may be a trap. But if the vulnerability is genuine, do not revel in it. Show mercy when you can. And so I shall.

I sit up as well, square my shoulders, and look Nathaniel Howe in the eye. "I...you are right. I am wrong to be flippant about your family's plight. The same could have happened to my own, had they lived. I _was_ your father's enemy, and at one time I did swear to see his whole family suffer, but I didn't mean like this. I apologize."

Nathaniel stares at me, incredulous. "You apologize? You murder my father, turn my family out on the streets, and then apologize? It's more than I expected from a Cousland, but not nearly enough."

I shake my head. "No. But it is a start, I think. Remember, your father and his men slaughtered both of my parents, and my sister-in-law and my little nephew."

He rolls his eyes again, still not believing, but I keep at him. He must learn. "I know the names of your family, the dead and the living. Rendon. Delilah. Thomas. I am aware of their plights. I know of their suffering. I _dare_ you to look me in the eye and say the names of mine: Bryce. Eleanor. Oriana. Oren. Fergus. I do not deny that I struck down your father, the Arl. And yet if he and his men had not besieged my home, I would never have become the Grey Warden who hunted him down. I would have been pretty Lady Elissa Cousland, probably married off by now. Odds are good it would have been to your brother, or to _you_."

He's taken aback. I let those ideas bang around in his head for a couple breaths' time, and then I press on.

"You and I will not be able to forget our losses, but neither can we afford to be at each others' throats. Our families were once strongly allied, as you may recall. I cannot spend my energy on vendetta when darkspawn are destroying our country. I hope you can see the sense in that, Nathaniel. You and your remaining relations will not suffer at my hands. Stay here at the Keep if you wish. My men probably won't trust you for a good while, and you won't be considered nobles any longer, but I won't turn you out because of your father. You are clearly not he. _He_ would have run me through at the first opportunity."

I neglect to mention that in addition to running me through, the old Arl probably would have raped me first, tortured me, then stayed to watch me bleed. There is only so much bad news a man can handle in one night.

The dark-haired man slumps back in the bed, rubbing his hands across his tired face, and groans, "The Maker is a sadist. Only a twisted bastard could devise _this_." He sweeps his one hand around, indicating not only our present location, but the whole series of misfortunes leading to this moment.

Andraste's tits. Being somewhat broken myself, I always soften a bit for other broken souls.

"We must put things right, Nathaniel, and quickly. If we cannot...this will not end well." I lay a cautious hand on his shoulder.

He grabs my wrist again, the idiot. I could break his arm, but he's trying to get my attention, not to dominate me. He suggests, "Make me a Grey Warden, then, so that I can better help put things right. My grandfather was one."

He doesn't demand, doesn't plead. It is a fair request, and I need recruits. I was told that it took four Grey Wardens to stuff him in the dungeon cell where I found him. Pragmatically speaking, it would be wasteful to let him go.

"I am inclined to do so, but you must first know what it is you're asking. Becoming a Grey Warden is dangerous. You may die. Worse, once you've become a Grey Warden, there is no undoing it. You will have a complicated life, and a relatively short one, but you will have your Warden brothers and sisters at your side if you do your duty. Do you understand?" I cannot tell him about the Joining ritual or the side effects of the Joining, but I can give him this warning.

"Yes. I understand. I will try to redeem my family's name, and I will help you fight the darkspawn, Warden-Commander." He is suddenly formal, as if already taking an oath. I cannot help but indulge him with a small smile for that. He and I were both raised from birth to mouth the proper phrases in any situation. Even now, both of us dislodged from our former positions, we still slip into pieces of that dance with little effort.

Giving a short nod, I tell him, "Grey Wardens don't stand much on ceremony, except when accepting a new member and a few other times. No need to go into the 'Warden-Commander' bit here."

Nathaniel rewards me with a rueful smile of his own. He sees the bizarreness of this situation. It is so strange to see any smile on a Howe face. He does resemble his father a bit, but without the piggy, cruel eyes and the tightly pursed lips. Maybe his looks favor his mother. Or maybe before the greed set in, Rendon Howe was once a handsome man like his son. It is difficult to imagine.

"Very well. I will join the Grey Wardens tomorrow morning, then? Where shall I stay until that time?" He's still holding my wrist in his hand—I think he forgot he had it.

I pat his fingers, and he lets go. "Stay here. This is your bed. I'll use the settee. I'll take other rooms tomorrow, but tonight I don't wish to raise questions with the guards by wandering the halls. They'd be irritated that you got in here relatively undetected." I procure a spare blanket from the armoire. "May I use this one?" I ask. It's his, after all.

"My...nursemaid. Made that. But yes." He's already falling asleep.

I tsk. "Here."

I bring the blanket to him and spread it over him. It smells faintly of perfume. "Get some rest. You'll need it."

The poor blighter's out cold already. Never even moved from where I threw him, and he still has his gear on. I fetch another blanket for myself and make myself comfortable on the settee. It's a luxury compared to the bedroll and tent on hard ground.

I sleep lightly that night, but I do sleep straight through until dawn. It's a start.


	2. Chapter 2

In morning, I dismiss my personal guard for the day and make my way to the Keep's throne room. I can't figure how he does it, but Nathaniel slips out unseen. Shortly, he returns through the front gates and formally requests, to my feigned surprise, to become a Grey Warden. To this I agree, and it causes a bit of a stir when I order the Keep's staff to restore Nathaniel's rooms to him, moving mine to the end of the hall on the same floor. I cast my gaze around the room, reading faces. There is relief in some of them, confusion in others, but no violent hatred pointed at the man himself. Good enough.

Seneschal Varel shakes his head when I direct that the young Howe be put to the Joining, but he makes the preparations with only a small protest. "I hope you know what you're about, Warden-Commander."

Nathaniel accepts the Joining cup calmly, breathing, "The moment of truth," before drinking, swaying, falling to the floor. It is only after Varel verifies that he will live that I notice I'd held my breath, as I had before for the others. I'd wanted this Howe to live. I feel Rendon Howe's remaining grip upon my spirit fading, thoughts of blind revenge upon his heirs falling away.

My third successful recruit after Oghren and Anders. I feel a pang for Mhairi, and then remember Daveth and Jory. Best get used to it, I tell myself.

Among my fellow Wardens and the Keep staff, only Oghren knows me well enough to smell mischief, but even he can't put his finger on exactly what he suspects. For once, he keeps his mouth blessedly shut until he can speak to me in private. The flame-haired dwarf draws me aside as we make ready for our first major expedition.

"Hey, uh, Commander. You got a minute?" He leans in, grinning, and I can smell that he's already had his first ale of the morning. I grin right back.

"Hallo, friend! What's on your mind?"

"Well, I...uh. It's just...how _exactly_ did you adjust that Howe whelp's attitude?" Oghren waggles his eyebrows, and I can't help but laugh.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't polish his daggers, and there was no nug wrestling involved!" I pause. "Ooh. Don't picture that, Oghren."

"Oh, too late for that," he giggles. "But...watch your back. When he woke up after his Joining, he kept his eyes searching around the room until he saw you. I don't want to see anyone get messed up again. Uh. Y'know."

I compose my face into the picture of pleasant nonchalance. "I appreciate the concern, Oghren. I don't think there's cause for worry, but I will watch my back. And," I add, slugging him in the shoulder and winking, "I know you'll be watching my back, too."

"HA! Oh, _aye_. That I will, Commander," he assures me cheerfully, stomping off to pack his supplies. With Oghren, you just have to accept. His perverted flirtations are bluster. If you want him to simmer down, all you have to do is reply in kind or hand him a drink.

I gather my party and venture forth, as the saying goes. It is more comforting than I would have expected, having Oghren along. He is the single known quantity in the group I am leading to the city of Amaranthine, on unfamiliar roads and new terrain. Even the roadside wildflowers remind me that this is strange territory. Yellow madcap and red blood lotus spring forth where I expect the delicate greens and whites of elfroot and deathroot. I allow myself a few miles of longing for my old companions before I force myself not to think of this newness, these changes, as wrong. I must adapt. I will focus on my recruits. Amaranthine and its smugglers will be a good test before we explore the Wending Woods.

The days go by in a blur. Street brawls, political maneuvering, the running of errands urgent and trivial, all of these occupy us completely. Attacks by human enemies are as common as darkspawn raids. Time feels short, as if there is a clock hidden away, ticking, counting down to an unseen catastrophe.

It is punctuated by good fortune, however. The templar Rylock sets a trap for Anders, asserting that the Chantry's authority supercedes that of the Crown and the Grey Wardens (yes, I will _definitely_ speak to Queen Anora about that), and she is quickly cut down when she attacks us, putting Anders' mind at ease for the time being.

Nathaniel locates his sister, and they spend some time catching up while the rest of us seek out supplies and information. His disposition toward me is less guarded when he reappears. That is curious, but I do not pry.

Meanwhile, we are learning to work together. At first it is a difficult process. Once, during an early raid on a smuggler hideout, I leave Oghren open to more attack than he can handle, and only Anders' quick healing prevents him from going down. Oghren has no hard feelings, but later as we all sit on crates to catch our breath, he reminds me as tactfully as he can:

"Commander, _he_ ain't here. You're the only shield wielder we got. Gonna need to remember that."

Indeed. I pat him on the back, my gauntlet clanking against his Legion of the Dead armor, nodding at him without saying anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Nathaniel shoot a questioning glance at Anders, who makes a little face and shrugs. I pretend not to have noticed.

Over time, we work out our tactical difficulties and become smooth and efficient, grimly calm even in the worst battles, dishing out death to our foes and taking good care of each other. There's a rhythm, a music to it. The whoosh of Oghren's great-axe and my longsword, the thunk of blows upon my shield, the whistle of Nathaniel's arrows, and the crack of ice and arcane bolts from Anders' staff. After, the hum of healing spells, the delicate clicking of picked locks, the clink of coin and treasure, the patter of wisecracks and commentary.

Almost like old times, I muse. Similar machine on the outside, totally different workings on the inside. The same goes for me, I suppose. The anger that swept me to Amaranthine no longer propels me. Travel and battle are monotony, lacking the wonder they once held for me, and also the horror. I am only truly roused on the rare occasion that a companion is in real danger, and I thank the Maker for this small sign that I am not completely heartless. I do not mind becoming what is necessary in order to defeat this devastating darkspawn infestation, as long as I can remember that my true goal is saving people, not felling enemies.

I wonder if this is what it felt like for Duncan. I wish I could ask him.

It is not the Wending Woods, with its dry beauty, that finally reaches me. It is not Velanna, the Dalish elf whom we fight and ultimately recruit. Not our encounters with alarmingly organized darkspawn, Velanna's sister, and finally the Architect. They are _nothing_ compared to the Archdemon. They will be dealt with eventually, and probably by me. Instead, it is a simple, sudden arc of lightning across the darkening sky on our way back to the Keep. At the sight I do not startle, but my body numbly and automatically assumes a battle stance.

"That's real lightning, not mage lightning," calls Anders, patient amusement in his voice. "Shall we attack it anyway?" The rumble of thunder that follows faraway lightning reaches our ears.

"Ah, no. I think we can show it mercy, just this once," I offer, embarrassed. "Let's keep going. We'll get poured on, but we'll make the Keep before dark."

Oghren and Anders hoot with laughter from the front of the group and begin to pick on each other. Velanna smirks and walks, as is her custom, a little apart from everyone. I walk behind. The rain spatters the land around us, washing everything down, making green foliage vivid—almost aglow—against the dust of the road and the grey of the sky. I am oddly revived by the scent of it, as though a dirty film has been rinsed from my senses. The smell of rain and mud has been a constant in my life, from our family gardens and fields in Highever, to the road to Denerim, to this moment. Blight and darkspawn be damned, the clouds still open upon the land where they will.

Unseen by my companions, my face relaxes, my stride lengthens. Well, not entirely unseen. Nathaniel appears at my elbow, tapping my pauldron twice with the back of his fingers, an eyebrow raised. I give him a tired smile, but a genuine one. We walk together wordlessly until we reach the Keep.

We're drenched, and once we can make out the Keep's main gate, we all break into a jog. (Only a jog, because we're far too tired to sprint.) The gate guards welcome us, and I release my party. Free time until tomorrow morning. Velanna is shown to her quarters—the Keep is a new and disconcerting experience for one of the Dalish. Oghren takes his place by his favorite cask, and Anders wrings out the hem of his robe and heads off to look after Ser Pounce-a-lot. There are some matters of business for me to attend to in the throne room, and I handle as many as I can before I droop, putting the rest off until tomorrow. Varel is understanding, Mistress Woolsey only slightly less so.

I fairly bolt to my new rooms. On my way, I send a request that my dinner to be sent to me there, and to my recruits in their quarters if they have not already eaten.

Once shut in my room, I jettison my armor, barely remembering to put it on its stand. After starting a roaring fire in the bedroom fireplace, I bathe quickly, donning nightclothes and a long robe. I intend to indulge in a quiet dinner, and then to read "The Rose of Orlais" until I fall asleep. Wynne recommended it to me long ago, but I never began it. I once scoffed at ladies who read such books, feeling they wasted their time on bad writing and wishful thinking. Only recently have I come to understand the appeal of immersing oneself in a world in which all problems work themselves out in the end, and _everyone is happy_.

A knock at my door, probably dinner. I am famished.

"Come," I call. "Just set it on the table. Er, _please_." I am still shocked when I slip back into old ways, after all this time. Just last night I ate with my hands, a horrid stew I cooked in camp. The moment I'm in a well-appointed manor, I nearly neglect to thank the person who brings me my food.

The door opens, and Nathaniel enters the room, a tray easily balanced in one hand, a bottle of wine under his arm.

"As you wish, Lady Cousland." He's teasing me, using his most courtly manner and a fake, booming voice—he noted my arrogant tone, and then my hurried "please" A corner of his mouth twitches. Nathaniel sets the tray on the table, then picks up one of the dishes, explaining in his real voice, "I was in the kitchen catching up with the cook when your order came down. As I was about to bring a meal to my own room anyway, I convinced her to let me bring yours up as well. Do you have everything you need?"

I flash him a wicked smile, clasp my hands together, and singsong at him in an accent like Queen Anora's, "Ser Howe, what a _lovely_ surprise. _Won't_ you join me at the table? It would be _such_ a shame to eat alone."

The grey eyes study me for a moment, off balance for only a fraction of a second, and then he begins to play along.

"I daresay, my lady. It simply _wouldn't_ do." He imitates a solemn, gallant noble, still trying to prevent a smile from working its way to the surface. "Please, allow me." He pulls a one chair back from the table for me and motions at it with an overdone flourish. I gather the skirt of my robe together as if it were a ball gown and mince ridiculously over to the chair, seating myself with a flounce. "Would you perhaps care for some wine with dinner, Lady Cousland? I brought the very best from the Howe wine cellar."

He truly has. I know the label. This wine is sometimes served in the royal palace in Denerim. I bring my fingertips to my lips to feign astonishment.

"Oh _my_ , Ser Howe. How _very_ considerate of you. I would be _most_ pleased to have some wine with dinner." I make no motion toward the bottle; traditionally, if no servants are available to pour, the duty falls to the man. He pours the wine in a couple of water goblets from my desk, then rearranges our cutlery to be in "proper" order, retrieving quills from a nearby desk to serve as all the extra little forks and utensils customary in formal dining. All the while, the voracious Grey Warden appetite gnaws at me, as it must at Nathaniel as well. We each have a heaping portion of venison, potatoes, greens, and some fresh, crusty bread, and it's all I can do not to wolf it down immediately, lick my plate, and bang on the table for more. We somehow manage restraint.

We proceed this way through our meal, I prattling on about the weather and making up the latest gossip about nonexistent, idiotically-named nobles, and he gruffly boasting about hunting trophies and politics. We meet each others' inane utterances with the scripted perfection drilled into us by our upbringing. I am aching to laugh, and I can tell from the way he's pressing his lips together that he is too. Just as I am miming my way through delicately picking at an imaginary dessert and concluding my story about the scandalous affair between Teryn Bucktooth and Lady Knickerweasel, his sides begin to shake.

That tears it. I guffaw. Nathaniel's face opens up, and for the first time, I see him laugh unreservedly. We sit helplessly at the table and chortle until it hurts, tears streaming down our faces.

" _Maker_!" I gasp, once I can speak again. "Did we really live that way?"

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and shrugs between fits of giggles. "I think so, somewhat. Does it matter anymore? That life is gone."

"Of course it is," I agree, noticing that although we'd not hurried our eating, both our plates are meticulously picked clean instead of left with a few bites, as refined manners would dictate. I collect the mostly-full wine bottle and our goblets from the table, and point to the fire. "Another round, yes? Come sit." He cocks his head, hesitant, so I explain. "One of the benefits of being a Grey Warden is that no one gives two coppers who sits up late at night talking to whom without a chaperone. And if they do, we can rightly tell them to kiss our behinds."

"Hmm. I can stop fretting about protecting Oghren's virtue, then," he muses, as he rises from the table. He strides over to the fireplace, picks up the poker, and prods the fire back to life. I join him there, refilling our drinks. Satisfied with the fire, he sets the poker down, and I hand him his wine. We sit on the floor facing the fire, with our backs resting on a settee and the wine bottle between us.

"To your new life as a Grey Warden, Nathaniel. May it treat you better than the old one," I toast. We clink goblets and drink, watching the flames dance.


	3. Chapter 3

We sit and chat at length about the Free Marches, high dragons, Andraste's ashes, anything that doesn't touch directly upon tragedy. But eventually, Nathaniel pulls his attention away from the fire and studies the floor, a lock of dark hair falling so that I cannot see his eyes.

"To tell you the truth, I have been dwelling a little on the past," he allows, then hurriedly adds, "I assure you, I am past my initial rash behavior. I hope I have demonstrated as much in our recent travels. But...I am still curious about some things, and I wonder about might-have-beens. I asked Oghren some questions, but he said he wasn't the person to ask. I was hoping I might ask you."

I feel dread, even as I empathize with his need to know more. I drain my wine and pour more.

"Of course. I will always answer you to the best of my ability," I say, facing him. I gesture to him with the bottle, and he nods. He drinks, I refill. "Let me know if we get into territory that requires something stronger than wine. I have a few flasks stashed away."

"This will do for now. Thank you." He sighs. "This is difficult for me to ask, but I must. I want to know how my father died. If he suffered. Oghren says he wasn't there."

"I...can tell you what you want to know. Are you sure you want to hear it? From me?" Here, there is a lump in my throat. I have killed many, many people since I left my home. I have probably left legions of orphans in my wake, but I have never shared a meal and a bottle of wine with any of them. I have never had to explain myself to any of them. It was bound to happen sooner or later—the odds are very much against me on this one—but knowing so doesn't make it any more palatable a prospect.

"Yes. I am sure. Please," he says, in that earnest voice. His eyes focus on the embers in the fireplace.

I take a deep breath. "Your father, as you may have heard, had kidnapped Queen Anora. He stashed her in a guest room in the Arl of Denerim's estate, which he had recently taken over, and had one of his mages seal the door. Her servant heard your father say that she'd be a better ally dead than alive, and so ran to Arl Eamon for help. He asked us to rescue the Queen. We...forced our way through that estate and found people that your father had imprisoned and tortured. A Grey Warden, an elf from the Alienage, a Bann's son, the Arl of Denerim's son, and a templar. Then, we found your father with two of his mages."

I, too, find myself staring into the embers as I drag these words out of myself. I have bragged before about slaying Arl Howe, and now I feel the shame of it. I force myself to proceed.

"It was a nasty fight. Your father was a formidable opponent, and his mages were powerful. In the end, he fought us hard and died cleanly. We did not torture. There was no interrogation." My tongue is dry, but I owe him the truth. "I desperately wanted to make him suffer for what he did to my family, but ultimately I could not let myself. My comrades Alistair and Wynne wouldn't have allowed it, even if my judgment had failed. Wynne will tell you the same, if you find and ask her." Finished, I turn back to Nathaniel, trying to judge his reaction.

"Ah. Just so. Thank you for telling me. I see that the words do not come easily to you." His expression is beyond sad. I inwardly kick myself for including the details about his father's prisoners. Looking me in the eye, he asks, "One more thing, if you are willing. Did he speak? What were his last words?"

Oh, _Maker_. I fervently wish he hadn't asked that. I speak the words carefully, inflecting them as Rendon Howe had. "Maker spit on you! I deserved _more_."

Nathaniel's face hardens as he slams his goblet onto the floor, narrowly avoiding shattering its thick glass. I tense, ready to fight, wondering if he will try to strike me. I will be vexed if he does, not because I can't protect myself, but because of all the abject apologizing he'll probably do afterwards.

Instead, he hisses, " _Typical_. In my blindness, I hoped for better from him. Always, in his quest for _more_ , he stole from everyone else. He was a Blight unto himself, tarnishing the goodness in everything he touched! Did you know, Oghren informed me the other day that my father had moved his personal quarters right next to the dungeon in that estate?"

I make a mental note to have a chat with Oghren.

He continues: "Delilah told me he'd been indulging his 'darker inclinations,' but he'd become a full-fledged monster! I find I cannot blame you for putting a quick end to him." His long-fingered hands clench and unclench as his eyes water. Not a single tear falls.

"Nathaniel." I move the wine bottle from between us and scoot closer to him. "Look at me." He swallows and says nothing, does not look up. He is struggling for control of his face, smoothing it into a mask. The stiff upper lip we both acquired as children still has its uses.

I take his hands in mine to stop the clenching. "You are Nathaniel Howe, a skilled Grey Warden working to defeat the darkspawn incursions in Amaranthine, your home. You have a kind-hearted sister who loves you. You've won the respect of Oghren and Anders, and my respect as well. You are proud of the high points of your family's legacy in these lands. _You are not your father_. If a Cousland can see that, anyone can. The blot your father left on the Howe name will become a footnote."

He wraps his fingers cautiously around mine, still without looking up. "But what of you?" he whispers. "He destroyed _everything_. You could have had a good life."

"But he didn't destroy everything. He couldn't. What he did was _change_ my life. Because of your father's troops' delay, my brother Fergus _lived_. With most of my family gone, I was made a Grey Warden with few family ties to distract me, enabling me to focus on my tasks. I met my first love. I traveled Ferelden and witnessed miracles in unexpected places. When your father convinced Loghain to send an Antivan Crow after me, my little traveling group gained an accomplished assassin who eventually helped me defeat the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon. When your father sent a man to spy on Redcliffe, that spy helped us defend the town from undead. Your father's machinations led me to save the life of the Queen, who is now indebted to me for both her life and her crown. Your father indirectly _gave_ these lands to use for rebuilding the Grey Wardens. I can ruminate endlessly on all I lost, but I find I do better when I consider the gains. I have an unusual and dangerous, but good, life."

The man is nodding, reflecting. Good. "Your first love. That would be Alistair, Maric's son?"

"Yes." It is my turn to look away. "Maybe Oghren told you about that, too. Alistair was a good man. Preferred to do what was right over what was convenient. Died for it. Things don't always go according to plan."

More nodding. He isn't going to probe me on that subject, which is just as well.

"The Crow," he asks. "Zevran?"

"Yes. An elf sent with a team to kill me. I showed him mercy, gave him his freedom, and he repaid me with loyalty. By the by, it was he and a bard in our party, Leliana, who taught me how to listen for stealthy intruders and how to lie in wait for them. I suppose you could say that your father foiled your assassination attempt." I nudge his shoulder with mine.

Nathaniel snorts bitterly, then laughs. "That would gall my father to no end."

"Again, things don't always go according to plan," I say. "He also sent _you_ to me, in a way. Without his schemes, I would be minus one recruit, and we would not be here drinking and talking." I extricate a hand and pour again.

He favors me with a slow smile, his eyes half lidded, inclining his head toward me. "Or we might be. Remember, we might have been married." As soon as the words are said, his eyes widen. "That...was inappropriate of me, I think. I apologize. My judgment may be impaired. I must go."

He stiffly begins to stand, but I grip his arm. He stops and stares at me levelly with a cool, silver gaze.

I tell him, "Don't. You don't have to be appropriate, and I am not offended. If you want to leave because you're tired, go, but don't rush off with your tail between your legs because you fear you've breached the bounds of polite conversation. I prefer people who speak their minds and don't hide their intentions. When you were plotting to kill me, you never hid behind protocol. Why start now?"

My speech gives me time to digest the smile he used, moments ago. I find I enjoyed it. Now that I know the man has spirit, I want to uncover more of it.

He sits back down at slightly more of a distance and mutters, "There's a difference between speaking one's mind and leering at recent widows."

At this, I have to laugh. "A widow, am I? I never married, but that's not what you meant. _Listen_. I always knew that I would lose Alistair. I had thought it would be in battle, or to a silly fight, or perhaps that he would have to be King someday and find someone to give him an heir. I was wrong about the details, but right overall. Did it hurt me when he died? Very much, though I was hardened by my previous losses. When Alistair chose to sacrifice himself, I was irate, not obliterated. Regardless, he is gone to the Maker. I have made peace with that. If you want me to let you keep leering at me, so must you."

"Becoming a Grey Warden makes one so very practical," he notes. I let go of him. He takes a big gulp of wine. "Very well, then. I shall adapt, as you have."

With no further hesitation, Nathaniel Howe reaches for me and presses his lips to mine. I embrace him in return, winding my fingers through his dark hair. I can taste that delicious wine on his tongue. He smells of leather and moss and clean clothes. Taking his face in my hands, I break the kiss and make him meet my eyes. I want him to feel certain he isn't taking advantage of me, that I'm not some bereaved, spineless lady giving in to his advances. Whatever this turns out to be, I need it as much as he does.

I slowly bring my mouth back to his and give him the lightest kiss, then another, breaking contact just barely each time, sometimes flicking at his lips with my tongue. He learns the pattern quickly. Each kiss, a little more pressure, a little longer between pauses, until finally I kiss him deeply, grazing his lower lip with my teeth. He playfully bites at me, skimming his hands over my back and waist through my robe, deftly removing the pins from my still-damp hair. It feels like an eternity since anyone has touched me, apart from hearty handshakes and the occasional clap on the back through armor. Without disengaging, we stand up together, holding each other. He begins steering us slowly over to the bed.

For other women, this would be far too soon. There are firm opinions on how to grieve properly for a lost lover or spouse, and many lose respect for one who fails to conform. But _sod them_. I am a battle-hardened warrior with a shortened lifespan, a barren womb, and chronic nightmares. If Nathaniel is offering himself to me, then I'll take him. Zevran had the right idea about taking one's pleasures where one finds them. And, I admit, this Howe man has won me over quietly with both competence and compassion.

"We should be...very quiet," I tell him. "The night guards took their stations outside my door around the time we finished dinner. I don't care if they judge, but all the same I feel the details are none of their business," I close my eyes as he nibbles at my neck.

"Mmmhmm. Agree. We could go somewhere else," he murmurs, working his way up to place a kiss behind my ear. His hand slides down to the small of my back, pressing me closer to him.

"And where," I query, snaking my hand brazenly to his groin, "are we going to go without you being seen in this state?"

He gives a little shudder and pulls back, his eyes suddenly devious. "There are no guards outside my room, correct?"

"Correct." I've worked two buttons on his shirt loose. Before I can get the third undone, he catches my hand and plants a kiss on its palm before pressing it to his chest.

"We could go there. We'd still have to be quiet, but not nearly _as_ quiet." He returns his attentions to my mouth.

"And still," I say against his lips, "We'd have to walk past the guards."

"Come here," he whispers in my ear. "You've made your point about Grey Warden practicality. Now let me show you a little bit of Howe practicality."

He steers us back toward a corner by the window and presses an indentation in the side wall's wood paneling. The panel slides back to reveal a narrow passage, and he pulls me through, closing it behind him. He finds my hands in the pitch black and leads me down the passage, which apparently runs behind some windowless rooms along the outer wall of the keep. We arrive at another door, which opens into his own room. Moonlight streams through the window—the very window he climbed through the night before his Joining. The panel closes behind us with a soft click.

"Practicality _and_ ingenuity. Impressive. How long have you known it was there?" I slip my hands under the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

"My brother and sister and I used to explore the Keep as children. It's a warren. Each generation of owners has built their own secrets into it, some for security, some to enable them to visit each others' rooms undetected. I'll walk you through all the passages sometime for, ah, a security review." I feel his lips curve against my throat. His hand works the belt of my robe loose and I shrug it onto the floor.

I am aflame, impatient. I hook my fingers into his waistband and drag him over to the bed. Letting go, I shuck my nightdress and fall back on the bed, arms wide.

"Take those off and join me," I invite, and so he does. We tangle together, feverish with need. There's no point in being tender and slow right now; we're both fully aroused and desperate, clinging to each other, trying to maintain as much contact as possible. It will be over quickly for both of us, and that's fine.

Nathaniel suckles at one of my nipples while rolling the other between his fingers, and my hips shudder beneath him, angling toward his hardness. I find it and let him feel how ready I am, rubbing myself against the head of it. He pulls back, causing me to whimper, and then he simultaneously sinks his tongue into my mouth and his shaft into my wet heat. As he groans against my lips and bucks, burying himself inside me, I mewl and wind the fingers of one hand into the hair at the back of his head, my other hand gripping the taut flesh of his backside. His voice is shadows and silk, his body is warm satin over sinew and hard muscle. I meet him thrust for thrust until I explode with pleasure, panting and shaking against him.

His turn, now. Still matching his rhythm, I grip his hair tighter, nipping at his broad shoulder with my teeth. The fingertips of my other hand drag down his spine, from his neck to the small of his back, and as I reach it, he presses his face hard to my own, his whole body spasming in release. We ride the aftershocks expertly together, kissing and stroking lazily. He grinds into me, causing me to convulse and twitch my hips in pleasure, in turn sending a new tremor through him.

Our heartbeats slow as we enter a sated stupor together. I feel Nathaniel roll to the side, leaving a hand cupped to my breast and one leg thrown over my own. I hold him to me, savoring him. I think I could get used to the convenience of that passage between our rooms. After a moment, I hear him chuckling into the pillow.

"Mmm?" I inquire.

"I swear, I _did_ only intend to drop off your dinner. And I was going to keep the wine for myself."

"Things don't always go according to plan," I whisper, and kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon Age and its characters belong to BioWare. I'm just messing about with them. This was originally posted on Fanfiction.net in 2010.


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